Newbie (40 page)
It isn’t that I’ve been close enough to look intimately into his eyes. I haven’t. Lately. I know because I sat opposite him at a table in kindergarten and throughout elementary school. He’s been in at least half my classes in junior high and high school. So I’ve continued a stealthy study of those eyes, one glance at a time. Hundreds of glances a year
“Lexi, bring your writer’s notebook.” Ms. Danou’s voice jerks my attention from my writing. I throw a period behind the last word and pick up the notebook. Ms. Danou sits at her desk in the corner of the classroom, pointing to the chair beside her. She is mid-fortyish with long, salt-and-pepper hair. She is one of my few teachers who really know what they’re teaching. She’s an author. Not in the sense that “we are all authors here,” but she writes novels someone published, someone paid for, and someone read.
My chemistry teacher isn’t a researcher. My math teacher doesn’t earn a paycheck as an engineer. And my business teacher drives the rustiest car in the teacher’s parking lot—pretty sure he doesn’t get Wall Street.
It feels as if the whole class is watching me move to the front of the room. And this is why I hate sitting in the back. If I ever have to go to the front of the room, I can’t help wondering if my hair is wonky or my shirt has ridden up and the kids whispering behind me have noticed. I watch my feet take each step as I weave through the cluttered aisles, across the gray and white linoleum tiles littered with backpacks, jackets and notebooks.
I tug at my shirt and slip into the chair beside Ms. Danou, perching on the edge, curiosity and fear warring in my mind. She knows writing techniques and secrets I crave. Right now, I’m just toying with the idea of being an author. There’s less potential disappointment if it’s just a casual interest—for the last six years. Fine, not casual. It freaks me out to think my heart and soul could be smeared on paper for others to read—way, way in the future—and be judged by my metaphors or punctuation.
Each time I sit in this chair, I worry I don’t measure up, that someday Ms. Danou will shake her head and suggest I become an entomologist instead of a writer. I guess I would have to make the best of it, live deep in a rain forest, discover new bug species, write an encyclopedia for cataloging insects…
I hate bugs.
“What are you working on today?” she asks.
Opening my notebook between us, I say, “A characterization. It’s just brainstorming right now.” I’m fidgeting in my chair like I need to go to the little girls’ room—just nerves. Pressing my sweaty palms to my jeans, I force my legs to stop moving. “I don’t have a story for this character yet, and it isn’t finished.”
“Read me what you have so far.” Mrs. Danou leans forward and tilts her ear toward me. She says you can tell a lot about a story when you listen to it from the author’s voice.
I begin reading. “Tanner’s eyes are the sky.” Would anyone recognize this description as being Brendon Michaels? Duh—of course they would. I immediately drop my voice to a whisper to continue, “If you look into them close enough, long enough, you can almost see flecks of ice melting.” Ms. Danou looks up at me and I feel my cheeks blush warmly, but I continue reading.
As I finish, Mrs. Danou leans away, theatrically fanning herself. “Please tell me this is the antagonist. Good looks on a bad boy is money.”
No. How could she think that? He’s angelic. “I was thinking the hero, actually.”
“Well, you’re not done yet. You have time to rough up his edges a bit so he’s not quite perfect. We women love a few imperfections.”
“Like, he has no butt?” I say with a smirk.
She smiles but shakes her head slightly. “No need to be hasty. Something will present itself as you begin developing his personality. Just stay open to a flaw or two.” Ms. Danou taps her pen on Tanner’s name. “Writing is observation. Maybe it would help to choose someone to borrow characteristics from as you continue.”
“Observation.” I smile and nod. Don’t you worry—I’ve got that one covered. I head back to my desk, considering what deficit I could possibly write into the story, thinking this is where the “fiction” part must come in. Well, and the fact that Brendon’s character will be falling in love with a character like me. Maybe I could cast myself as a young starlet or a model, someone out of his league.
After lunch on Friday I walk to chemistry, but Friday is lab day, so instead of turning right into our classroom, I make a left and stand along the wall in the science lab, passing Brendon Michaels on my way. Our teacher begins calling pairs and assigning tables.
“Michaels, Middleton, table five.”
Yes! Alphabetical order—genius. Because of the alphabet fetish teachers seem to have, if Brendon is in my class, there’s a good chance I’ll sit in front of, beside, or behind him.
“Didn’t we have science together last year, and the year before?” Brendon asks, falling in behind me.
Right behind me. I feel a slight flush on my neck and cheeks, which I hope isn’t turning red. We cross the room toward our assigned lab seats. “Yes, I think you must be following me.” Ugh, I sound formal. Relax. I drop into my seat and place my books on the table in front of me as Brendon sits down.
“There are worse things to do.” The dimple in his left cheek deepens as he smiles, then he winks at me.
Excitement lurches through my heart until I reminded myself, of course he winked—he’s good at being a high school celebrity. I’m not going to get my hopes up. I’ve got nothing to say, especially while my voice box is melting down my throat and my mind slams into neutral. It’s who he is, and it works for him. Often. I blush anyway and reach out to square up the corners of my books while we wait for our teacher to finish lab partner assignments.
Science labs are the reward for taking extra science credits. And given this class is advanced chemistry, there’s an added element of curiosity and danger. I’m not excited yet. In a few days we’ll break out the equipment and the fun will start, but this is the first day our class has come into the lab, and our teacher, Mr. Williams, doesn’t disappoint—or does, depending on how you look at it. He takes the full seventy minutes droning out thou-shalt-nots for using the equipment and materials in the lab.
The clock is moving toward the last gasp of his lecture when Brendon turns his notebook my way: Did he forget to tell us not to taste the chemicals this year?
A small spark of excitement for breaking note-passing rules makes me smile as I pull his notebook toward me to answer: Yes. And don’t sniff, snuff, huff, or inhale them, either.
Just as Brendon reads my reply, Mr. Williams intones, “Don’t sniff, touch, or taste chemicals.”
We both cover a snicker. Brendon writes, Our world is safe once more.
From the back of the room, James yells, “If we bring our own chemicals, can we sniff those?”
“Shut up, James,” Mr. Williams says without emotion.
“It’s good to be back, Mr. Williams.”
When the bell rings, Amberlee Williams materializes between Brendon and me. Her table assignment is two rows behind ours on the other side of the room. She must have hurdled a couple of tables to reach us before we could even stand. My body recoils swiftly from her.
“I’m having a little back-to-school celebration at my house this weekend. Can you make it?” Her head tips to the right, and golden waves shimmer over her shoulders. Her smile broadens as her eyes sparkle.
Brendon looks at me. I look at him. He seems as surprised as I am at her appearance. My surprise quickly become annoyance when Amberlee slides into the space between our chairs and turns her back so I’m blocked from Brendon’s view—and from intruding on her invitation.
I rise from my seat. My brain warns me that Amberlee has her sights on Brendon this year.
“Sure. Sounds fun,” Brendon answers as I join the flow of the masses moving through the halls. With a pang, I realize he’s all in for her party. Yeah, this is not over.
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A special thanks to you, our readers, for choosing our books. Much thanks also to our families for the time we spent away from you for writing, editing and our crazy path to publishing. We want to express appreciation to Jenni and Kristy for being our beta-readers, for your encouragement, insights and reactions. Thanks to our editors
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Ali Cross
, our cover designer
Bret Henderson
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Newbie
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Jo Noelle grew up in Colorado and Utah but also spent time in Idaho and California. She has two adult children and three small kids. She teaches teachers and students about reading and writing, grows freakishly large tomatoes, enjoys cooking especially for desserts, builds furniture, sews beautiful dresses, and likes to go hiking in the nearby mountains. Oh, and by the way, she’s two people: Canda Mortensen and Deanna Henderson, a mother/daughter writing team.
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